Sunday Afternoon
by Dark Mirage1
Summary: Curious about what Mason Eckhart does on a Sunday afternoon?


2006 Sunday Afternoon5

**_2006_**

Mason Eckhart stepped back from the only window in his personal quarters.

The window was a laminate, like the windshield of an airliner, bulletproof and penetrable only by a small missile. Eckhart had insisted upon the window and the laminate, and upon a manual release to drop the entire pane into a pocket below should his rapid egress be required.

_I should be dead. But I'm not. ___

_Right after the accident, Breedlove told me I'd have to live in a sterile environment if I was going to live at all. He never bluntly told me, but he thought I was going to die. I know why he kept feeding me sedatives. Perhaps if my head had been clear in those days I would not have clung to life with such resolve. Breedlove and Adam were both surprised after I not only survived but climbed back over the edge of that metaphoric cliff._

Outside, it was Sunday afternoon. Inside, temperature and humidity (low) never varied. The air passed through multiple filters preventing the passage of particles of less than one-tenth of a micron, removing pollen, dust, bacterial spores, and most viruses.

_We're such adaptable creatures. I did not want to live a life circumscribed by an overgrown sterile glovebox, so stepwise I left it behind, making adjustments along the way, accepting the procedures required to keep me alive, but always pushing back the possible._

He walked briskly past shelving filled with books and CDs, shelves covered with glass panels to prevent settling of dust, and swiped his personal keycard in the reader for the only door out and in. Then the reader further read his right thumbprint and the irises of his eyes. Only then did the inner door open, revealing the outer door three steps beyond.

Eckhart stepped forward into the space between the doors, which functioned much like an airlock to prevent untreated air from the outside to ever reach the interior. The system was programmed to never open both doors simultaneously save by a manual override from the interior or by the smoke and fire detection systems.

The rooms behind him were extremely clean, but not sterile. Nevertheless, they formed a relatively safe retreat, in combination with regimens of antibiotics and ultraviolet lighting, switched on in his absence as soon as the inner door closed behind him.

Eckhart pushed the limits of prudence and science since the accident, insisting upon living a life approximating that of a normal human. 

Except in appearance. Genomex employees, visitors, and the occasional unwelcome invaders saw him only wearing the inevitable black shirt, black pinstripe suit, black tinted glasses and the impossibly white wig. As with most everything he did, these choices were controlled and purposeful; people focused on the clothes and hair, not upon Eckhart himself.

_People see only what they are prepared to see. _

No one who worked daily with Mason Eckhart would readily recognize the man emerging past the outer steel door, wearing a denim shirt, jacket, and jeans, lightly tinted wire-rim sunglasses, and a brown wig of the commonest color, with grey blended in here and there. 

Using another keycard which opened all Genomex exterior doors but did not report a name or time to security records, he left the Genomex building behind

and entered the real world outside.

The coumarins liberated by the mower blades filled the air.

_There is nothing on earth like the scent of fresh-cut grass. _

The scent was almost intoxicating to a man confined to filtered, disinfected air.  
_  
__What would Breedlove have said if he knew I indulged in these forays into the wild world? It doesn't matter. He never found out. _

_What if Breedlove was wrong? What if my immune system has recovered, in some measure? I've never noticed any ill effects after these outings. _

The hope was an old one Mason Eckhart refused to abandon.

_Breedlove said I was in denial. He couldn't know everything. But who is left who could tell me the truth of it? Anyone outside of Genomex would ask questions about how I came to be this way. Perhaps I should recruit someone with the right credentials. _

As he approached the rear end of a white Genomex company car, he removed a flexible magnetic patch painted to match the bland white of the modest Ford sedan. He covered the Genomex sticker to the left of the license plate, obscuring the car's ownership. It was a small thing, but small things could be critical.

The ignition key he carried opened any of the Genomex cars, but Eckhart used this one exclusively. He could not tolerate cat or dog dander, and avoided approaching surfaces touched by other people, laden as they would be with skin cells, bacteria, and viruses. Even on the most fastidious of people, non-human life flourished, life potentially deadly to Mason Eckhart.

The sedan was nearly new, with barely two thousand miles on the odometer, but it was due to rotate out of Eckhart's service shortly. He dared not risk discovery due to mechanical problems.

The chain-link gate topped by razor wire had no guard on duty, as it did during business hours. After hours it could be opened and closed by a properly coded keycard. Eckhart recognized this as a security weak point, but left the arrangement unchanged because a human guard would note his passage, and his secrets would become vulnerable. He swiped his keycard in the reader. Eckhart's keycard was special, programmed to operate the gate but generating no record of the action.

Beyond Genomex were several blocks of ordinary houses, and just beyond, a small strip mall. Eckhart turned the so-ordinary it's-invisible Ford into the parking lot, pulling up in front of a shop which was a drop off site for UPS and Federal Express, and contained a few hundred mail boxes.

Entering the shop, Eckhart buried his gloved hands in his pockets. The clerk glanced up from the catalogue he was idly perusing, then returned his attentions to the printed page as Eckhart turned towards the bank of mailboxes.

The box was operated by a combination instead of a key. Opening the box, he withdrew envelopes chronicling portions of his life no one at Genomex imagined. He retrieved the mail and returned to the car for reading, wanting to imprint as fleeting an impression as possible on the mind of the dull-eyed clerk.

On top was a bank statement where no one knew he had an account. The statement contained no surprises. Like the rest of the mail, it was addressed to Suite 385 at an ordinary street address, masking the fact that it was merely a box.

_Grey's college grades. _

Since Eckhart was paying his son's tuition, a report of grades received arrived at the end of each semester. He leaned across the seat and removed a self-sealing, stamped Number 10 envelope from the glove box, wrote a brief congratulatory note on the grade report, and stuffed it into the envelope, which he then addressed to Grey.

_You deserve better than this. We both do. But it is all I can manage. For now. _

Eckhart then buckled himself back in securely, and started the engine once more. He dropped Grey's mail at the closest post office, then recalled that one of the remote controls in his quarters was in dire need of batteries. He could wait until tomorrow, and collect a set from the Supplies Room, but getting someone to go down there and retrieve them could be more trouble than buying them in the wider world.

He turned in at the nearest likely place, a drug store which stocked the necessities of modern living, including AAA batteries. Radio Shack would have been more fun, but was farther away.

Batteries in hand, Eckhart got in the checkout line behind a woman whose purchases filled the counter.

_This will not be quick. _

Uncomfortable in close quarters with people, especially those he could not command, he briefly considered leaving without the batteries.

_You've fought down worse demons than this. _

More people came to stand in line behind him, and only his self-control mastered the desire for immediate flight to a safer, open place free of disease-ridden people.

_It isn't even winter when half of them have dripping noses and the other half are spewing aerosolized viruses everywhere. _

The woman ahead of him pawed through the depths of her purse, gathering up all the change she could mine from the bottom. The cashier was not pleased, and the people behind Eckhart were even less pleased about the holdup.

The woman gave up her search, telling the cashier, "I'm afraid I just don't have enough with me. You'll have to take some of this off the total."

_Why not? _

"Ma'am, take this, please." Mason Eckhart, the demon of many nightmares, removed a new ten dollar bill from his wallet, and handed it towards the woman. He carried only absolutely new paper money, since used paper money was incredibly filthy. Coins were not a problem since the metals poisoned any life they contacted.

"Oh, I couldn't." Her eyes were wide with surprise, embarrassment, and suspicion. Eckhart was not used to such open scrutiny, or trying to appear harmless. He managed a mild, non-threatening smile.

"You must. Consider it a gift from the universe."

_I heard that phrase in a story I read a long time ago... _

"Well...Thank you." She began to hand him the difference in nasty, well-used dollar bills.

"That's fine, please, do keep it all."

Once more, the surprise, but with less suspicion. "That's kind of you, sir. You probably think I'm poor. I just forgot to go to the ATM before stopping here."

"No need to explain." Eckhart smiled, not his Genomex smirk, but a genuinely meant smile.

_Anymore than I am about to explain why I do not handle used money. _

The cashier bagged the woman's purchases, handing the plastic bags back across the counter. The shopper plucked up the bags, and hurried for the door.

Eckhart paid for his batteries, and drove back towards Genomex and his safe haven.

_My employees probably believe I have boxes of flies brought in so I can while away the hours tearing off their wings. That is good. They stay alert. None of them would find what I just did credible._


End file.
